Sören (Sir-in) Lindgren

2026

The room drips shadows. The dark places writhe, calling him like crooked fingers. Trinkets hang from the ceiling, beads and tiny skulls, feathers and dried skin. Noises shuffle. Somewhere in the darkness sounds the tinkle of chimes, disturbed by no wind. She sits on the floor amid the chaos, a square of white cloth in front of her. It is a dare to be here. He thinks she is a cliché, a charlatan. But he does not like the weave of her fingers, the glint of carved stones in her grip, clacking together conspiratorial of his fate. He senses his mistake too late. The lack of control rolls anger in his gut, but submission to his curiosity lulls him closer. He needs to know what she knows, even if it is lies, and though he holds the price he is willing to pay close to his chest, the curve of her smile suggests she knows the answer. <em>Anything.

There is nowhere to sit but the floor. He doesn't want to, but even at fourteen he is tall; he towers and it makes him uncomfortable. "Mamsell."
That's an old honorific, something he shouldn't know, but he reads old things. Her brows flicker surprise but she accepts the words and nods. Finally, he sits.

When she speaks it is in Swedish. The words are mechanical, and he watches her hands more than he listens. Her fingers are very pale, her nails short and clean. The stones peek dark between the flesh. They whisper.

The secrets they keep irritate.

He flips his wallet and offers two crisp CCD notes, but she scowls at him - he has obviously caused an offence. Then she drops the runes. He stares curiously at their alignment on the cloth, drinking in the knowledge that is utterly indecipherable to his gaze. The cut of the shapes and symbols forge a link even so. He wants to know more. Intent, he reaches out. His finger touches one in the same moment her hand moves to stop him. In the brief moment of contact she snatches her hand away, speaking in a rush. Her eyes have widened, afraid he thinks, though the breathy rush of her voice suggests that maybe she is just shocked. He does not know what has happened.

He stays for more than an hour. When he leaves, his expression is heavy.</em>

• <li style="display:none">
  
• Fragments (Ivan)
  
  
  
• Changing Course (Alone/Declan NPC)
  
  
  
• In Due Course (Declan NPC)
  
  
  
• Accepting Consequences (Morven)
  
  
  
• Celebration Time (Dane - Methos, Hood, Danika)
  
  
  Edited by Soren, Sep 26 2016, 01:23 PM.
  
  

Continued from Dreams of Fire

Awareness came to Jon for perhaps all of five seconds on the floor of the train. Long enough for the cold, dirty metallic floor to register its corrugated grit against his face. Long enough to wonder if he'd managed to do any good at all.

Long enough to see the bleak outline of a body bag.

“Sleep for now.”

Something pinched him. He was being rolled over onto a stretcher by a man in a hazardous material suit. It registered to Jon that he was helpless. He found he couldn't focus well enough to even sense the Great Spirit, and that it was incomprehensible for him to actually imagine wrestling it to his will at the moment. If he even still could.

One thing was certain. The situation was no longer under his control. But there was one thing he could do. Consciousness faded, and he stepped out of his body.

* * *

Faceless, formless, Jon found himself in that place with millions of glittering lights, a place with infinite space and none at all, that lay between the Spirit World and the waking world. But even before Jon came to any other sense of awareness in this place, he saw his spirit guide. The spectral white coyote materialized before him, waiting patiently. Or at least that's the way he perceived it; nothing had any shape or form here.

Okay. Here he could actually do something. He sought out one of the twinkling lights. It appeared before him, and like looking down into a snow globe he was able to see what was going on. Yes. A huge white wolf facing down a moose that had gotten itself surrounded by the rest of the pack.

Jon projected his “voice” into the ball. BEAR. IT IS JON LITTLE BIRD. I AM UNCONSCIOUS AND HELPLESS ON A TRAIN IN MOSCOW. CONTACT CAROLINE. SHE WILL BE ABLE TO FIND ME IN THE WAKING WORLD.


The dream winked out of existence. Next was finding Caroline. Unfortunately Jon failed to find her dream. That was odd. He'd expected her to still be asleep. Unfortunately, she'd be in for a surprise when she got a call from someone who sat on the Council of Native Americans, who happened to know Jon was in trouble. But she'd believe it, and she'd be able to trace his Wallet, or make some calls. And maybe get a hold of someone. Hopefully. It would hardly be the strangest thing Jon had asked her to do.

Jon stepped across the gap and into the Spirit World. There, quick as thought, he had his body, clothed as an Apache scout. He grimaced at the .38 lever action rifle in his left hand, and it disappeared. Then he remembered the situation he'd just left behind on a conscious level and felt his heart jump, and reached for the Great Spirit. The power flooded into him. For some reason that reassured him, even though in the next moment he reminded himself that his abilities here was simply a reflection of his thought, and all that he really knew of his condition in the waking world was that he was still able to project himself here. If even that was true. What if he was dead and was really a spirit here, now? His heart skipped another beat.

The glowing coyote leaped, bringing Jon's attention back to it. “I know you aren't really there,”
he said to the thing. “Either I made you, or someone else did to bring me here.”
No answer. Well, wasn't that silly, talking to an animal projection? He glanced around, putting other thoughts out of his mind. Marble columns and white polished marble steps. This was Washington. More specifically, the White House. Why had he come here? He turned around and found himself alone.

Jon sighed and shook his head. It was pointless to go back to his body if he was still out cold, and Bear would share what he learned when he could. Until then he was stuck waiting. Might as well see what he could learn while around the place.

With a thought, he found himself in the Oval Office. Quiet, empty, the place radiated elegant simplicity. Although America was no longer an empire, it was still a force to be reckoned with. And the man who occupied this office, though he had great power and influence, was still at the end of the day just another person hired to do a job. The strength of America was not in its leaders, but in its principles. In fact the personalities of its leaders were oftentimes its weakness.

Pens and papers flickered in and out of existence on the desk. Jon rifled through papers, reports and other various things. He had to be quick; often, he'd pick up a piece of paper and start reading, only to have it change while in his hand. Anything moved much in the waking world cast a poor reflection here. Jon frowned as something marked “Eyes Only” that mentioned something called SUBGRU and a debriefing on some operation vanished before he could make out more.

There wasn't much of use that he could find. His eyes rose as he saw an analysis of HR 6213, which was the Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act, something the Council of Native Americans had been trying to push through Congress. NAMPPA was a largely low-key measure that protected the medical information and health decisions of tribal members. Passage was important to Jon because, although it wasn't explicitly spelled out in the bill, passage meant tribes couldn't be forced to turn over those afflicted with the Sickness or even report that information, where Great Spirit alone who knew could, or would, target them. It also meant non-natives could come and get treated without anyone finding out. And, according to this report, Frederick Dawson wanted to know what impact a positive or negative stance would take on his reelection bid. According to this none of his opponents were likely to make it into a big issue if he supported it, and a veto might give the talking heads some easy fodder. A good find, and one that bade well for his cause.

“Jon.”


Jon turned his head, and found Bear, in human form. The great hulking man grinned across the room.

“You look good behind that desk.”


Jon smirked. “I don't like offices.”
He set the papers down. “I hope you bring news that I'm still alive. Something is keeping me from waking up.”


Bear nodded. “Caroline located you. You're in a hospital outside Moscow. They are going to let you go once they find you don't have The Sickness.”


Jon laughed. What irony, ending up helpless until the doctors determined he didn't have the symptoms that indicated the trait that allowed him to wield the power that caused him to fall unconscious to begin with!

Then the laugh died in his mouth. Only he'd be able to find out if he hadn't harmed himself in other ways. He'd lost control, that was what happened. And to do that with the awesome force that was the Great Spirit was to invite destruction. He should have known better.

“Thank you, Bear,”
he said. What a shame he could not simply have Bear or someone else spirit his body into this place, away from untrustworthy eyes. It seemed that if one could go into the Spirit World with his mind, it would be possible to just...poke a hole through from one place to the other. How much simpler things would be if he could step across the world as easily in the waking world as here! “Can you see if Caroline can get someone close to me that isn't CCD? I don't know who she'd call, but there must be someone in Moscow trustworthy.”


Bear nodded. “Of course.”
He paused. “Jon, you need to come back. It's the Sickness. Noah --”


Jon stared at his friend. He'd heard the crazy old man had gotten himself a council seat. “What has he done?”


Bear put up his hands. “It isn't like that. In fact he's been most helpful in teaching effective treatments. And he's keeping the council happy. But he's told me we need you.”
He shook his head. “The survivors...I've seen them do things.”


Of course. The problem was obvious. While Jon was bumping up against others who had the ability to wield the Great Spirit, at home the secret was boiling over and about to break wide open. And there wasn't anyone to teach them anything, the way Jon had managed to teach himself. And Noah would know what it took to keep them alive. It stopped when you learned control. Or you died. He'd thought he would have had more time before he had to confront the problem.

He nodded. “If I don't get out of Moscow soon, we'll get me out.”
He regarded the phantom papers as they popped in and out of existence on the desk.

He should have known better. Those two at the club, Nick Trano, Dane and Nimeda and all of the other people and situations he'd been running after...

What a fool I've been
. Jon had been chasing phantoms in Moscow, and a hospital bed was where it had gotten him. It was time to go regain the scent of the real prize.

Leaving Jensen's apartment, Giovanni found himself wandering around the city and taking turns at random. As a vagabond, he had a good sense of direction and knew he could find his way back if needed. It's not like he really had a home to go to anyways.

His thoughts drifted. A lot had changed in a short amount of time. He had stayed in Moscow. For the first time in three years, Giovanni wasn't living the nomadic life. He still had to scrounge for food, but he was staying in the same place.

The power was the main difference. He had embraced his ability to utilize it, contrary to his beliefs that he was an abomination to do so. He had power now, so why not use it.

His appearance had changed as well. Not much, but he was dressing more fashionably even though he still stuck with mostly black. He had scrounged up (or stolen) enough to purchase some decent looking clothing that gave him less of a hobo appearance.

His wandering took him to the Underground City. He looked around seeing those that the city had forgotten about. Druggies and peddlers walked the streets openly. Prostitutes in revealing clothing stood at street corners while men watched, occasionally approaching one. Giovanni saw one man that reminded him of a movie he saw as a child - something about "buying death sticks."

Why am I here?
thought Giovanni.

He seized the power enhancing his senses. His change of dress had one flaw in a place like this. He looked like he had money and would be a target for pick pockets. As a thief, this is the kind of person he would have looked for. With enhanced senses, he should be able to catch anyone brave enough to try to steal from him.

Most of the thieves around here are probably poor at it anyways. Not even worthy of the title.


He avoided looking at the prostitutes calling to him, and sure enough before long, a young man feigned bumping into him. Giovanni felt the hand groping for his wallet. His speed increased by the power, Giovanni grabbed the man's wrist as he turned to glare directly into the young man's eyes.

There was fear there. A fear different from that of a normal thief getting caught by a cop. Cops were relatively nice, but the look in this man's face showed that he knew Giovanni was no cop. The young "thief" knew he would be lucky if he kept his hand after this was over.

Giovanni glanced at the man's had holding his wallet and returned his gaze to the man's eyes. He got the idea and dropped the wallet on the ground. Giovanni threw him to the ground, using to the power to enhance the effect a bit. The man fell backwards and crawled away before scrambling to his feet to run.

Giovanni brought his gaze up, and gave the same glare to those around him. Many dropped their eyes. The message was clear - this man is not a target.

Fool. The strong take from the weak, not the weak from the strong.
Giovanni thought picking up his wallet and beginning his walk again.

Many gave him a wide berth and Giovanni smiled. He had power. Not just the one power, but more than that.

I am a god. A god with no worshippers.
he thought.

That would have to change. He would need to find followers. The strong always dominate the weak and he was strong.


Edited by Giovanni Cavelli, May 29 2014, 08:21 PM.

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The First Age @The1stAge
Topped 2700 posts today!! Can we hit 3,000 before the 1 year site anniversary??? I think we can!

I have contacted Jason at Dragonmount with the express idea of getting permission to make a post on the main OOC board of the RP side of their site. He has given me permission to make an advertisement post. I told him that I wanted it to be from the player perspective (not outside looking in).

I'll be writing something up and getting Asc to modify/work with it, but I'd like to have other opinions and thoughts from the lot of ya'll.

The main part of this write up with give information on the details of our game and whatever Asc thinks is pertinent, so no one really has to work on that.

Must read threads, with descriptions of the events might be useful. Whatever ya'll think could draw in members.

Aria/Ayden/Sierra


Edited by Ayden, May 28 2014, 10:13 AM.

Sora Ryuu

Age: 38
From: Komukai Underground City

Occupation: All Naga are trained from maturity in stealth and battle. Many would say they were trained by ninja. Few remember that ninja were created from the memory of a Naga.

Psychological description: Curiosity is Sora's hallmark. In her youth she was the snake in your shoe. She ate the eggs in the henhouse and she avoided every trap set to catch her in her wanderings. Today she has a more sober outlook. Though she has learned caution, signs of humor, mischief and a zest for life peek through even her more mundane activities.

Physical description: She is small in stature both as a snake and as a humanoid. She has tawny gold skin with dark umber patches and black eyes. In humanoid form she stands 4’5”, wears cloth wrapped about her in similar indistinct markings or a full ninja wardrobe complete with a face mask to hide the fact that she is not human.

Power: She shares the increased strength and speed of her race as well as snakelike senses and immunity to the One Power.

Bio: The sibilant sound of speech swept the streets of Komukai, one of many Naga cities. Sora walked through the thronged marketplace carrying supplies back home, her muted gold scales reflecting the sourceless light. Unlike traditional Naga her own age, Sora preferred to maintain a humanoid form. She though it better prepared her for when it was her turn Outside. She was a Gatherer and she took her sacred duty seriously. That was as far as her resemblance to other Gatherers went. While most Naga learned about the Outside in an attempt to maintain their invisible existence, Sora sought to integrate herself among the humans. She looked like a child to most and as such was largely ignored by the malignant forces in the world. Unlike most Naga, her size often afforded her a view of the kinder side of humans. She had partaken of countless gifts and helpful instructions from humans merely because they assumed her one of their own, too young to defend herself. It made her feel better about protecting the ancients knowing their race to be compassionate.

Sora entered her house just moments before her vision blurred, then sharpened. The Need was back. There was an ancient to be gathered. She quickly donned her ninja garb and a large shapeless overcoat. She stood waiting, knowing that in a few minutes, she would be transported to a place Outside. She was needed…


Edited by Sora Ryuu, Jun 23 2014, 03:07 PM.

The newest appointment to the prestigious Custody apprenticeship program was to be picked up at the Central Dominance International Airport, formerly known as Moscow International exactly forty-five minutes after touchdown. Everything was prearranged, of course, as part and parcel of the honor bestowed upon him.

The days of drivers standing with signs on congested airport trafficways were distant memories at CDI. High-resolution gps tracking easily coordinated point-to-point rendezvous. All the new apprentice needed was to work the software preloaded on the state of the art Wallet shipped to his home before he left to find his way. It would direct him to a black Mercedes towncar, four-door, spacious and sharp as a blade.

The driver, a contracted civilian, was completely unaware of the importance of either the traveler or the woman in the car waiting for him, assisted Marcus with his luggage. Both car and driver might appear no different than any of the other Mercedes, Jaguars or BMW's lining the curb, but Marcus was front and center, protected and given right of way by the pair of orange-fringed CCD flags posted on the hood.

Krasivolkya Constantine looked up with Marcus sat beside her. There was a stern freeze across the planes of her face that did not soften despite the recognition. She was a handsome woman, though she would cringe to be called as such. Her short, infinitely curly hair was tightly groomed. Her suit was colored Custody-gray but without the cut of military shapes. The pin on her lapel was that of the Ascendancy's double-crescent, modified silver, as only the Ascendancy had the right to wear the black and orange.

Krasivolkya stretched out a hand to shake Marcus' and immediately transferred to him a Wallet-document itinerary. The same itinerary that she swiped to the air in front of them. The first of many details to discuss was her own identification.

"My name is Krasivolkya Constatine, Chief Liaison in the Executive office of the Ascendancy, Custody of State. You are Marcus DuBois, on behalf of the EoA and the Ascendancy, I welcome and congratulate you. In the fifteen years since this program was founded, your predecessors have gone on to hold influential offices across all seven Dominances, operate billion-dollar corporations, and regularly utilize the apprentice Alma mater network to achieve mutual goals."


She swiped to the next screen. "This will be your itinerary for today. You will find schedules and a modified syllabus of expectations for the next six weeks in the rest of the files. Today, it is my honor to take you to the Kremlin where you will sit through security debriefing before being shown to living quarters."


The next swipe revealed a 3D hologram of the interior structures of the Kremlin. In the southwest corner sat the Grand Kremlin Palace "Visiting dignitaries, Patrons and their families often stay in the Palace. It occupies one-hundred fifty square kilometers in size, and is one of multiple structures not open to the public."


Throughout the duration of the drive, the beauty, symmetry and majesty of Moscow blurred by them. Soon they delved from the sleek highway of the ring road system and delved toward the heart of an empire. The red walls of the Kremlin loomed in the distance.

<small>((K.V. written with permission))</small>

Hood stepped away from the counter at Kofe Khauz, and sat down at a table next to a window, a simple newspaper in his hands and flipped up before his face. Of course, he wasn't reading the paper; it was all the usual drivel city papers wrote about. Lots of bold headlines about the situation in DV. The 'CCD special operations' team that had attacked that fucking Muslim holy man. Something about an African merc company saving a reporter; that barely registered. It was a two paragraph side note, a 'glimmer of good' in a dark situation, just weird enough to warrant paper space.

None of that mattered though. He didn't give two flying fucks about DV or the CCD at the end of the day. He lived comfortably in the CCD; the system was just corrupt enough that he could make it by without much effort on his part, but it's the politics were of little interest to him. Really, everything he did to protect himself was overkill, mostly just to keep himself sharp and occupied.

Hence why he sat at a shitty chain coffee shop open far later then a cafe needed to be (it was already 0100hrs), staring at a newspaper. Bloody archaic things for 2045, but he had some sentimentality about him; spies had been using newspapers to hide in plain sight for over a hundred years.

One thing that had changed about being a spy was the toys you got to play with. Gone were the days of sitting in a car scoping a place out, or having to get yourself a room across the road to watch through the windows. And found were the days of drones, and thermal imagery that could see through concrete walls, unique isotope tracking, and so much more. Of course he didn't have access to all the toys he used to, but the black market was a bustling thing even in Moscow (or especially in Moscow), and he had enough disposable income to have assembled a very satisfying toy collection.

As for the why he was sitting in a cafe drinking mediocre overly expensive sludge so late at night...Hood very much liked having a clean back yard. Folks causing trouble in his yard caused trouble for him. And, much like any alpha predator, he had a very large yard. Most organized crime was smart enough to not cause any real trouble. Most of what he dealt with was the small time stuff; street gangs and trouble causing punks.

Hood's Landwarriors displayed images from a half dozen hidden cameras; they were cheap, store-bought toys mounted with far from cheap cameras and transmitters, which had been seeded around one of many run-down Soviet-era apartment blocks that dotted the area. It had taken a full day to get those cameras into place; the cheap toys were far better then what he had grown up with in the '20s, but still nothing compared to what he had used in the military.

A far more expensive toy drone circled the building. He'd planted signal-rebroadcasters in the area so they could reach him inside the cafe. Being as it was night, the larger toy drone went unnoticed. Which was good, because he had no interest in letting some gangster punk putting a bullet through the very expensive thermal imager that was mounted to it. It gave him an interesting view of the building's interior.

He lowered the paper long enough to accept a slice of Prague cake from the very Goth-inspired woman working the counter. A barista, he believed they were called. Cute, but far too young for him to bother with.

Within the building, there were dozens of heat signatures. Most were in bed at so late an hour. Some willingly, but most hadn't that luxury. On the third floor of the long, ugly concrete apartment building, twenty five bodies, some disturbingly small, were in a prone stance, as if in beds. More likely, they were tied to a spike hammered into the concrete floor.

Six other heat signatures, adults and likely men, were the only other ones on the same floor as the twenty five. Some were in the same rooms, laying with their prisoners, or hovering over them and touching. The rest sat in a room near the stairwell (there were no elevators), in a circle. Probably around a table, talking or eating.

Occasionally, they had visitors; customers, paying on the cheap to help break in the new product. Other times, it was more of the gangster shits, delivering food, water, and drugs to keep the prisoners high. They took their turns with the prisoners too.

It was just one of the many things that happened in Moscow unnoticed by those around them. The other people in that building; they lived there went about their days, and ignored what was happening on the third floor. They went to work, they went out with friends, and they ignored the sounds. Because that was just the safest thing to do. Why stick your neck out for someone else?

And why stick your neck out for people that didn't exist? The twenty five were, he was fairly certain, all children of illegal immigrants. There were thousands of them in the city; tens of thousands if not more, really. He had no idea; no one did. They were the ultimate prey for the sex trade. Untraceable, uncounted, and missed only by those who could not seek the help of police.

Hood had no intentions of sticking his own neck out. He didn't seek to save those prisoners. Not for free. He simply couldn't risk it; he was sitting on an Atharim safehouse. He was, technically, an illegal immigrant himself, but with the connections and skill to craft a new identity and go unnoticed. He worked for a very successful private security company. He had plenty of reasons not to get involved. And reasons to make sure these shitheads left his lawn.

If they slipped up and brought in the police, it was the sort of thing that could lead to some very unwanted interest in the Zamoskvorechye district. So he had to make sure they moved. And in a way that didn't draw their interest to himself.

So he would watch them, learn their patterns, then bump a few of them off here and there. All over the city. And leave some hints that maybe they should get out of the sex-trade. Or at least out of Zamoskvorechye. They'd think it was a rival organization, and if he had the desired effect, they would move. And he could go back to spending his nights having a beer.

The building in question was large; seven stories, although those above the third had no electricity. It had no water. It's sister building across the parking lot was a pile of neatly dozed rubble with grass and trees growing out of it. It had been knocked down twenty years ago and nothing had ever followed.

Six men resided on the third floor with their twenty five abducted kids and teenagers, and they were armed to the teeth...not that it mattered, if they weren't holding their weapons. They had no expectations of trouble, and had been in place for a few weeks already without any problems.

It was their third group, not that they shipped finished product out in regular batches; more a matter of when a few were ready, and a few new ones would be brought in. Some of the teens had been there two weeks already. Some died; it was normal and expected, and they hadn't had any trouble disposing of the bodies yet.

Beyond the six men though, was a van parked a few blocks away. Four more had the unfortunate job of sitting in that van in twelve hour shifts. They were the back-up should the safehouse be bumped, although they spent most of their time bitching about the cold and sleeping when they could manage it. Beneath their van sat another cheap RC toy, a truck, to which Hood had attached a listening device. He had no interest in watching them, but it would help to know what they were talking about; they had direct comms with the men in the safehouse, giving him an idea of what they were talking about.

So far, it had mostly been about owed debts and which of the kids was the best fuck. Should the opportunity present itself, a few of these men would die very terrible deaths. It would help insinuate that maybe the rest of them should find new lines of work. Hood cut off a slice of his Prague cake and gave it a try.

A long moment to savour the taste, then he nodded approvingly and gave an appreciative gesture towards the barista; she had suggested it, after all.

Hood stepped away from the counter at Kofe Khauz, and sat down at a table next to a window, a simple newspaper in his hands and flipped up before his face. Of course, he wasn't reading the paper; it was all the usual drivel city papers wrote about. Lots of bold headlines about the situation in DV. The 'CCD special operations' team that had attacked that fucking Muslim holy man. Something about an African merc company saving a reporter; that barely registered. It was a two paragraph side note, a 'glimmer of good' in a dark situation, just weird enough to warrant paper space.

None of that mattered though. He didn't give two flying fucks about DV or the CCD at the end of the day. He lived comfortably in the CCD; the system was just corrupt enough that he could make it by without much effort on his part, but it's the politics were of little interest to him. Really, everything he did to protect himself was overkill, mostly just to keep himself sharp and occupied.

Hence why he sat at a shitty chain coffee shop open far later then a cafe needed to be (it was already 0100hrs), staring at a newspaper. Bloody archaic things for 2045, but he had some sentimentality about him; spies had been using newspapers to hide in plain sight for over a hundred years.

One thing that had changed about being a spy was the toys you got to play with. Gone were the days of sitting in a car scoping a place out, or having to get yourself a room across the road to watch through the windows. And found were the days of drones, and thermal imagery that could see through concrete walls, unique isotope tracking, and so much more. Of course he didn't have access to all the toys he used to, but the black market was a bustling thing even in Moscow (or especially in Moscow), and he had enough disposable income to have assembled a very satisfying toy collection.

As for the why he was sitting in a cafe drinking mediocre overly expensive sludge so late at night...Hood very much liked having a clean back yard. Folks causing trouble in his yard caused trouble for him. And, much like any alpha predator, he had a very large yard. Most organized crime was smart enough to not cause any real trouble. Most of what he dealt with was the small time stuff; street gangs and trouble causing punks.

Hood's Landwarriors displayed images from a half dozen hidden cameras; they were cheap, store-bought toys mounted with far from cheap cameras and transmitters, which had been seeded around one of many run-down Soviet-era apartment blocks that dotted the area. It had taken a full day to get those cameras into place; the cheap toys were far better then what he had grown up with in the '20s, but still nothing compared to what he had used in the military.

A far more expensive toy drone circled the building. He'd planted signal-rebroadcasters in the area so they could reach him inside the cafe. Being as it was night, the larger toy drone went unnoticed. Which was good, because he had no interest in letting some gangster punk putting a bullet through the very expensive thermal imager that was mounted to it. It gave him an interesting view of the building's interior.

He lowered the paper long enough to accept a slice of Prague cake from the very Goth-inspired woman working the counter. A barista, he believed they were called. Cute, but far too young for him to bother with.

Within the building, there were dozens of heat signatures. Most were in bed at so late an hour. Some willingly, but most hadn't that luxury. On the third floor of the long, ugly concrete apartment building, twenty five bodies, some disturbingly small, were in a prone stance, as if in beds. More likely, they were tied to a spike hammered into the concrete floor.

Six other heat signatures, adults and likely men, were the only other ones on the same floor as the twenty five. Some were in the same rooms, laying with their prisoners, or hovering over them and touching. The rest sat in a room near the stairwell (there were no elevators), in a circle. Probably around a table, talking or eating.

Occasionally, they had visitors; customers, paying on the cheap to help break in the new product. Other times, it was more of the gangster shits, delivering food, water, and drugs to keep the prisoners high. They took their turns with the prisoners too.

It was just one of the many things that happened in Moscow unnoticed by those around them. The other people in that building; they lived there went about their days, and ignored what was happening on the third floor. They went to work, they went out with friends, and they ignored the sounds. Because that was just the safest thing to do. Why stick your neck out for someone else?

And why stick your neck out for people that didn't exist? The twenty five were, he was fairly certain, all children of illegal immigrants. There were thousands of them in the city; tens of thousands if not more, really. He had no idea; no one did. They were the ultimate prey for the sex trade. Untraceable, uncounted, and missed only by those who could not seek the help of police.

Hood had no intentions of sticking his own neck out. He didn't seek to save those prisoners. Not for free. He simply couldn't risk it; he was sitting on an Atharim safehouse. He was, technically, an illegal immigrant himself, but with the connections and skill to craft a new identity and go unnoticed. He worked for a very successful private security company. He had plenty of reasons not to get involved. And reasons to make sure these shitheads left his lawn.

If they slipped up and brought in the police, it was the sort of thing that could lead to some very unwanted interest in the Zamoskvorechye district. So he had to make sure they moved. And in a way that didn't draw their interest to himself.

So he would watch them, learn their patterns, then bump a few of them off here and there. All over the city. And leave some hints that maybe they should get out of the sex-trade. Or at least out of Zamoskvorechye. They'd think it was a rival organization, and if he had the desired effect, they would move. And he could go back to spending his nights having a beer.

The building in question was large; seven stories, although those above the third had no electricity. It had no water. It's sister building across the parking lot was a pile of neatly dozed rubble with grass and trees growing out of it. It had been knocked down twenty years ago and nothing had ever followed.

Six men resided on the third floor with their twenty five abducted kids and teenagers, and they were armed to the teeth...not that it mattered, if they weren't holding their weapons. They had no expectations of trouble, and had been in place for a few weeks already without any problems.

It was their third group, not that they shipped finished product out in regular batches; more a matter of when a few were ready, and a few new ones would be brought in. Some of the teens had been there two weeks already. Some died; it was normal and expected, and they hadn't had any trouble disposing of the bodies yet.

Beyond the six men though, was a van parked a few blocks away. Four more had the unfortunate job of sitting in that van in twelve hour shifts. They were the back-up should the safehouse be bumped, although they spent most of their time bitching about the cold and sleeping when they could manage it. Beneath their van sat another cheap RC toy, a truck, to which Hood had attached a listening device. He had no interest in watching them, but it would help to know what they were talking about; they had direct comms with the men in the safehouse, giving him an idea of what they were talking about.

So far, it had mostly been about owed debts and which of the kids was the best fuck. Should the opportunity present itself, a few of these men would die very terrible deaths. It would help insinuate that maybe the rest of them should find new lines of work. Hood cut off a slice of his Prague cake and gave it a try.

A long moment to savour the taste, then he nodded approvingly and gave an appreciative gesture towards the barista; she had suggested it, after all.

Race: African American
Age: 23
Height: 5'10”
Weight: 175 pounds
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown

Build: Slender, muscular, runner's physique.

Marcus DuBois was born in 2022 in Chicago, IL, younger brother to Andre DuBois. His mother was a crack addict and his father had left before he was born. So Marcus had no memory of his father and the memory of his mother would always be vague. She was far to interested in supporting her habit to be any kind of mother to them. A stream of johns, addicts, pimps and dealers were in and out of their apartment constantly, and the boys learned, even at that young age, to stay out of sight and look out for each other. That place stopped being their home when Marcus was 3 and Andre 4. They found their mother passed out in the living room, drool dripping from her open mouth, teeth a ruin, pipe on the floor, and they couldn't wake her. After having been discovered by a police officer out on the street as they were trying to get help, Child Protective Services (CPS) took them. Their mother was ruled an unfit parent, the boys became wards of the state and were dumped in the foster care system.

Dumped was the right word. Chicago in the 2020's was collapsing in on itself. Jobs were scarce, crime was high, and the economy was in the toilet. The once minimally cared for projects became a sewer and finding good foster parents was difficult. The foster care system was staffed by skeleton crews, the state unable to afford more than the minimal amount of people. The Federal government tried to help, both with the program and also with paying those individuals willing to take in children, but the CPS was only rarely able to do home inspections and follow up.

The first home they were placed in belonged to a woman named Denice, a wiry older woman with stringy hair and a dirty home. From the start, there was always a potential for danger in their interactions with her. Any kind of situation with her could easily turn, almost instantly, into something terrifying. Their time there ended when Marcus was 4. Andre was away at school and Denice had made fried eggs for Marcus' breakfast. After Marcus finished, he innocently asked for another. She looked at him irritatedly but made another. When he finished, she asked if he wanted another. He had no idea why she asked him. Her voice seemed normal, but the look on her face was dangerous and said, Boy, you better say no. Marcus' didn't notice that look. So she made another one and he ate it. He was full. She asked again, pushing. Now he was afraid to say no. She made another one and made him eat that. And another. And another. By the end, he was crying, snot running down his nose, yoke crusted on his lips, as she yelled at him and stood over him, smelly breath in his face, making him eat it. Seven eggs went down. They did not stay down. He threw up and she hit him upside his head, knocking him to the ground. She shoved his face into the mess and then dragged him to the closet and locked him in there. Then she shoved a chair under the knob so he couldn't get out. It was dark and Marcus was scared and sick and cried. He threw up again. Then he pounded on the door and begged to get out, promised to be good. Denice turned up the TV to drown him out. Hours passed. But on this occasion, their case worker happened to come by on an unscheduled visit. She found Denice half asleep on the couch and Marcus in the closet, covered with vomited egg. Andre came home from school to find their things packed and CPS ready to take them away.

So it went for the next 10 years. They were in placed with families, just the two of them, as well as in group homes. One home was run by strict religious disciplinarians who believed “spare the rod, spoil the child.” Any infraction brought immediate and swift punishment as well as hours of reading the Bible and praying. When he was 6, after spilling the milk while making cereal, Marcus spent two days in a dog cage with a bowl of water and dog food. But he learned to be neat and not make messes. Another time he was being punished- they wouldn't let him eat anything- so Andre tried to secretly give him some of his food. When Mr. VanPatton caught him, he filled the sink with water and held his head down in it while screaming about obedience. Marcus couldn't do anything to stop it.And in some of their homes, their foster-siblings were the abusers, using the cover of night to vent their anger and proclivities. Sometimes it was bullying and cruelty. Other times it was sneaking into his bed for darker deeds.

Through it all, Marcus and Andre survived, helping each other, warning of moods and threats. But Marcus grew dark with anger at the world he was in, the chaos and system that allowed these things to happen. His only escape was a tattered collection of old sci-fi novels he had found. There, Marcus lost himself in those worlds. Fighting battles, winning against enemies, bringing order to the world, mattering to the universe. His favorites were Star Wars novels, continuing the stories on past episode 9 and the TV show. It was a universe Marcus longed to live in, to have the power to bring order to his life, to protect himself. But Marcus found himself increasingly echoing the sentiments of the antagonists like Darth Bane, Darth Sidious and Darth Plagueis as they explained their philosophy of order, power and domination. It was when he read the Code of the Sith that it crystallized for him.

Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me.

He didn't tell Andre, but the day he read that was one of the days his life changed. From that moment on, that was his credo. He didn't have the force. But he didn't need it. This was his path to freedom. And the power to control his universe. They continued to pass through foster care home after home and it became a mantra that followed him through it all.

Another discovery that set his path came when he was 14. By then, they had been placed with a man and woman who seemed decent enough. But they always did at first. Marcus didn't trust them. It irritated him that Andre did. He was so naïve. Had he learned nothing? Sure, so far things had been pretty calm, for once in their lives. But Marcus was on guard anyway. He didn't trust it.

But on one fateful day lying on his bed, Marcus, who had just began studying geometry, found Euclid. And Marcus fell in love. He had never seen anything so pure and true. Chaos and uncertainty fled before Euclid's mighty pen, leaving a world that was pristine and exquisitely beautiful. Marcus marveled at Euclid's use of 5 self-evident truths and just a few propositions as the foundation and tools to build this edifice that was the study of shapes. With those tools, Marcus saw things proved, beyond any shadow of doubt or need for context or extenuating circumstance. It was pure holy logic and it was Truth. And Marcus embraced it, embraced the method of thinking it created, the willingness to reduce things and ideas and thoughts into their components and then systematically assemble them into structures that stood on their own.

And for once, Andre was right. The home turned out to be good place. But for Marcus, it was now just a place for him to pass his time. His life was his study, his philosophy. He never warmed to them and even grew distant with Andre. Instead, Marcus focused on his goals. He wanted control. He wanted order. He wanted purity and logic to exist in the outside world, not just the Platonic ideal. He finished school at 16 and received a scholarship to a university. He double majored, Mathematics for his love, Political Science for his power. Mathematics took him to logic and from there he fell into a digital circuit design class. This time, he found that the pure beautiful logic that he cherished so much, that Boolean algebra, could be applied to the design of circuitry. Pure mathematics expressed in the chemical plays of silicon and gold. It remained a hobby while he pursued his studies.

Any Political Science program was going to focus on the CCD and its relationship with the US. And in particular, on The Ascendancy Nikolai Brandon. This was the 3rd thing that changed his life. In Brandon, Marcus saw Sith principles in action. Those familiar with the Star Wars universe had the view that the Sith were merely stock bad guys gleefully stroking their beards as planets were destroyed. But in the quiet of his room, Marcus had spent hours meditating on what being Sith meant, on why it spoke to his soul. Freed of his body, his mind lighted over truths and axioms as pure and self-evident as those in Euclid. And the truth was just as elegant and beautiful. The world needed order. The world must be directed by those with the will to do so. And those with that vision must be willing to whatever it takes so that order prevails. At times, that might include doing what others called evil. But the real struggle was between order and chaos. Morality- good and evil- did not exist in such a paradigm. A Sith must be willing to rise above the common morality and judge themselves unique enough to create their own code of ethics. They had to grant themselves the license to do whatever it was they had to do, because they were called on to do what others could not. Indulgently permitting everything and keeping people free from the consequences- whether as individuals in risky behaviors, poor planning and wasteful spending, or as nations with the same equal but exponentially larger actions- was not a noble act, however it was clothed in the dress of morality. Society festered precisely because of that.

The Sith way, however, was the true way of salvation. It was the only way for true order to exist. Sith were fearless in their pursuit of that order. They did not sidestep emotion, but instead embraced it, felt the full spectrum of from joy to hate, from pleasure to pain as they carried out their indomitable will, drawing strength from the perfect and unapologetic merger of all aspects of their inner self. They were a universe unto themselves, needing no one. Those who died or were stepped on along the way were regrettable but necessary sacrifices for the greater good of all.

Marcus devoured Brandon's biography, as well as his books and speeches and anything else he had written. For Brandon fully governed using Sith principles and had been doing so for decades. Here was a man who had resurrected a nation and was bringing order to the world. It was a large job and there was still much to do. But in Brandon, Marcus felt a kinship that he hadn't felt with anyone. Andre remained his brother and Marcus still felt a residual bond of affection from their shared experiences. But at the same time, Marcus had moved past Andre. The world Andre lived in was too small. But in Brandon, Marcus saw a future. He began seeking a way to bend his course so that one day their lives would intersect. And perhaps- it something he imagined only when he let himself get carried away with plans for the future- Brandon would even take him on as apprentice. It amused him to think of it in Sith terms, though Brandon would never know.

He dropped his double major track and focused solely on political science from that moment on. Nothing was going to stop him and his rise. He still dabbled in math and digital design on the side. It was a form of meditation, when he wasn't actually meditating. Exploring equations and tracing logical designs soothed his heart. He inhaled political theory and history, diplomacy and strategy. Everything and anything that would aid him, he gave his all. His goal was the prestigious Ascendant Leadership Sigma Program (ALSP) internship offered by the CCD. It would be in that program that he'd try to find his opportunity to meet Brandon.

But his studies didn't just include academic exercises. He knew that he'd need to interact with people, to guide and manipulate them. He had to be genteel and accessible. He learned the arts of charm and flattery, self-effacement and guilelessness. He wore an easy manner about himself, ingratiating himself with teachers and students, practicing his skills whenever possible. He delighted in setting off arguments and effecting reconciliations, inflaming passions and convincing groups, all deftly handled often without people realizing what had happened. He found the same techniques worked with women and soon found his way into their hearts and into their beds. It wasn't that he sought companionship or needed them. But it was expected of him. He couldn't play the game of charm and manipulation and then not follow through or people would talk. And of course there were the base carnal delights. He was a man after all. And Sith enjoyed the totality of the human experience. But they were only games and tools to him.

Marcus final change happened when he was 21 years old. It came upon him suddenly. He had been walking in a parking lot of a grocery store when he passed by a van and saw a woman look around and then slap her child in the face. She was talking quietly but firmly to him, trying to vent her anger at the child without being noticed. The scene was so familiar to him that he could almost guess what had happened. The child had knocked something over or in some other way embarrassed the mother and she now was taking it out on him. Suddenly, Marcus was 7 years old again, Mamma Lawson smacking him in the car, all the while looking around periodically so as to not be seen. Marcus had cried and said it was an accident, but she didn't care. She just kept on. Marcus saw this woman and his heart went hot with anger. All that rage he'd kept bottled up inside churned and churned until his head was clouded with it. Unable to contain himself any longer, he walked up to the woman, eyes afire and quietly, voice hissing with rage, said “You need to die.” He felt like he was connect to this woman. Her eyes glazed at his words, her body still. Then, she left her still sniffling child in the car and walked to the edge of the lot and right into oncoming traffic. The truck that hit her had no chance.

Marcus stared at the scene in horrified awe. The little boy started bawling and people had come out to see what had happened. Marcus looked around in terror, looked up and saw the lot security cameras and realized that the whole thing had been recorded. Carefully, so as to not draw the eyes of others, he moved slowly to the other end of the lot and then was able to flee. But for days afterward he skipped his classes, terrified of police coming in to arrest him. Every ring of the doorbell sent a spear of fear into his heart as he waited to hear his name called. He was so worried, he fell sick, shivering and shaking. He was sick for days. What if they had seen him? Stupid stupid stupid. He was so stupid. He had to be calm, he had to be self-controlled. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew he was the cause and that he had to hide that fact.

Once the sickness had ended and fears had passed though, he noticed a curious sense of light whenever he did his meditations or work on math or circuits. It was just out of reach, but it called to him, glowing and beckoning him. And then one day, he seized that light and the universe opened herself up to him. He was flooded with power and felt like a god. His mind returned to the idea of the Sith. Could it be? Was this power the force? Ridiculous....And yet, there it was. Cautiously, he opened himself up to the force, allowed it to fill him. It fought him. Darth Plagueis' words came to mind, “The force tries to resist the callings of ravenous spirits; therefore it must be broken and made a beast of burden. It must be made to answer each one's will. The force cannot be treated deferentially.” Marcus exerted his will on the force, bent it to his mind, dominating it- he was a Sith Lord, it his servant- and it sprung into action. Different threads of force flowed out from his hands. He examined them and found they had flavors, found he could manipulate them.

He felt thrilled and elated. It seemed the universe was his. He knew he had been different his entire life. His sufferings had been merely training, preparing him for the role he was to play. He was a Sith lord and would have the courage and fortitude to do what others could not. He was beyond laws and morality. He would bring order to the world. He couldn't help but laugh out loud. Then he had an amusing idea. He needed a Sith name. He cast his mind about for something suitably ominous and portentous of his intentions. He would rule. Malik meant “king” in Arabic. Darth Malik. He liked that, though he put the emphasis on the first syllable, Mal. so that it worked with the Sith appellation Darth. From that time forward, he knew his true self to be Darth Malik.

He would still stay on course, now more than ever. Getting close to Brandon was all part of his eventual goal. And he was smart enough to know that he had still much to learn from the man. Just because Marcus had the force didn't mean he didn't still need to apprentice himself and learn. It just meant that he might be able to use the force to get his attention.

Another thing occurred to him. The woman who died. He didn't feel guilty about her at all. She had deserved it. And though he had been overwhelmed with shock and fear at the time, now a worm of pleasure stirred in his heart whenever he thought of what happened. He had made it happen, had removed an element of chaos from his world. Yes, it probably hadn't been necessary. But he accepted his failure as necessary and decided to be more careful. He was the master of this world, though only he and the force knew it. But he could start acting now, like the king he would someday be. And kings bring justice, they execute judgment. Marcus could think of many people who deserved judgment.

So Marcus' life took on an added element. Every so often, Marcus would pay a visit to someone from his past. Being older and looking the successful and charming college student that he was, many acted as if they were proud of him, as if they had some hand in his becoming the man he now presented to them. And in a way they were right. The cold rage would seize him, but he found that the force refused to come to him in those times. It irritated him to no end to have to go through Jedi relaxation techniques before the force would appear. Then he was free to seize it and dominate it, to teach it he was in charge. Mamma Lawson clutched at her throat, his hand outstretched. He imagined how he looked and smiled. Darth Malik smiled. Mr. VanPatten felt his heart squeezed. DeyShawn ran and was grabbed by air and dragged back where a pillow of air pressed on his face. Darth Malik was making sure that those who did not deserve to live in his world didn't. The world was his now.

Malik spent every evening communing with the power of the force, meditating and applying the same cold logic and methodology he'd learned from Euclid to this new power. Carefully he studied the flavors of the force, tested them alone and in combination, wrote down what he'd done, and made predictions. Gradually he worked out a rudimentary short-hand based on Knot Theory to describe the flavors of the force and their combination. This allowed him to manipulate them on paper in much the same manner as his much beloved Boolean algebra. He learned a lot. And whenever he went out on one of this executions he used what he learned.

He moved past simply taking petty vengeance. He didn't begrudge himself the right. But the world was bigger than that. He began to note news reports and stories of individuals who had escaped justice. And he dispensed it. A child rapist found with their genitals ripped off and stuffed in their mouth. A gang leader who's ordered drive-bys had killed 3 kids in the park found with burns across throat and limbs. A crack-addict who'd jumped an old woman in the park and bludgeoned her for her money discovered with his head twisted 180 degrees. It was Darth Malik's right to visit justice on those people.

When Malik was 22 a new truth manifested itself to him. Andre was also a force user. Malik was surprised but also appreciative to learn this truth early. Especially because they were brothers. It wouldn't do to be surprised by an enemy. Malik immediately began teaching Andre some of the things he knew. Nothing that would threaten him too much, of course, but enough that Malik could learn how to observe and deal with another force user. They even got into sparing sessions. During those times, Marcus felt the bond with his brother revive, and the work became something more. And then, Marcus would write down what he had learned, codifying weaves and techniques and Malik would assert himself. All the while hating the fact that to use the force, he first had to get into a specific Jedi frame of mind. It cost him time and dull the keen edge he liked when channeling. He despised the Jedi philosophy of indulgence and weakness.

That came to an end when Malik was out on one of his walks in their old neighborhood and noticed a man standing in the park. He knew him. Oh yes, he knew him. Farian Knowles. They had been foster-siblings in the home of Mr. Paretti. Farian had a cruel eye and was always picking on the smaller Marcus. Andre tried to defend him and Farian would hurt him too. But that wasn't the worst of it. Marcus' mind shied away from his thoughts. No! Malik thought. You are a Sith Lord. You will not cower from it. You will experience that fire and be remade.

His mind's eye went back. He's 8 years old. It's late at night. Farian's getting in his bed, wants to talk. At first he's scared- Farian was mean earlier that day- but soon he's laughing at his jokes and tickling. He wants to play a game. Marcus' mind shied away, but he forced himself to remember. It 's just a game. But then there's another game. And another. Each game is less fun, more uncomfortable. He doesn't like it. And then the game stops being a game. The tearing and the pain. He hurts. And now he's afraid. He doesn't want Mrs. Paretti finding the blood streaks in his shorts.

Darth Malik saw it all and felt the rage boil in him, the pure burning hatred. And here was Farian in a park with children. Darth Malik would submit to the force no longer. He was a Sith Lord. The force was his to command, not the other way around. He would not hide his deed. He was a Dark Lord of the Sith and he judged this man worthy of death. His heart burned with fire and suddenly he saw the fire of the force. Darth Malik seized the force, choked it into subservience, and walked to Farian.

Later that day, Farian was found in his apartment, fingers crushed, eyes and rectum burned, and genitals in his mouth. Surrounding the body were images of child porn. No one remembered Darth Malik leaving the apartment. No one had heard anything coming from Farian's room. It baffled police, though some of them were glad that there was one less child predator on the street.

From that moment forward, Darth Malik no longer yielded to Jedi meditation. He was a Dark Lord of the Sith and did as he pleased. He continued his studies and work, his meditations and experiments. He felt pleased to see goals reached and set others. He was deeply satisfied to learn that he had been accepted in the coveted Ascendant Leadership Sigma Program. His essays on the social contract in the field of governance and its flawed assumptions had impressed the arbiters of the program. He was leaving for Moscow, ready to begin the next stage of his life.

<small>((continued in Honored Guest))</small>



Edited by Marcus DuBois, Aug 27 2014, 04:16 PM.